eyes the while, and coughing in a faint and ladylike manner.

She could not really be only fourteen, Mellicent reflected. She talked
as if she were quite grown-up,--older than Esther, seventeen or eighteen
at the very least. What a little white face she had! what a great thick
plait of hair! How erect she held herself! Fraulein would never have
to rebuke her new pupil for stooping shoulders. It was kind of her to
promise help with those troublesome decimals! Quite too good an offer
to refuse.

"Thank you very much," she said heartily, "I'll show you some after tea.
Perhaps you may be able to make me understand better than Fraulein.
It's very good of you, P--" A quick change of expression warned her that
something was wrong, and she checked herself to add hastily, "You want
to be called `Peggy,' don't you? No? Then what must we call you? What
is your real name?"

"Mariquita!" sighed the damsel pensively, "after my grandmother--
Spanish. A beautiful and unscrupulous woman at the court of Philip the
Second." She said "unscrupulous" with an air of pride, as though it had
been "virtuous," or some other word of a similar meaning, and pronounced
the name of the king with a confidence that made Robert gasp.

"Philip the Second? Surely not? He was the husband of our Mary in
1572. That would make it just a trifle too far back for your
grandmother, wouldn't it?" he inquired sceptically; but Mariquita
remained absolutely unperturbed.

"It must have been someone else, then, I suppose. How clever of you to
remember! I see you know something about history," she said suavely; a
remark which caused an amused glance to pass between the young people,
for Robert had a craze for history of all description, and had serious
thought of becoming a second Carlyle so soon as his college course was
over.

Maxwell put his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and kicked
out vigorously beneath the table, with the intention of sharing his
amusement with his friend Oswald. It seemed, however, that he had aimed
amiss, for Mariquita fell back in her chair, and laid her hand on her
heart.

"I think there must be some slight misunderstanding. That's my foot
that you are kicking! I cut it very badly on the ice last winter, and
the least touch causes acute suffering. Please don't apologise; it
doesn't matter in the least," and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling,
like one in mortal agony.

It was the last straw. Maxwel